


(Wildest) Dream

by coeurgryffondor



Series: The way you look at me [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, M/M, Multi, Pregnancy, Surrogacy, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coeurgryffondor/pseuds/coeurgryffondor
Summary: 1993, her: Camille de Bonnefoy is content.





	(Wildest) Dream

# 1993, her

> Do not be rash with your mouth,

What words could they have spoken? He’d washed in her bathroom, and she had made him a simple breakfast wearing only her robe, and he had held her from behind when he found her like that in the kitchen, kissing the side of her face. He’d eaten at the table as she’d watched, leaning against the counter, before they had, together, walked to the door and kissed once more, desperately, and then he’d left.

He could have asked for help getting back.

She could have volunteered.

But it would have ruined the spell, and besides: what words could they have spoken?

Camille could only hope Toris’s entire being ached with as much pain as hers did. Anything else was to demand too much.

* * *

>     And let not your heart utter anything hastily before God.

Pierre is napping, his fathers sitting on the couch across from her. Camille watches as they deal with shock in their own way: Francis’s face contorts as new emotions wash over him, his mouth trembling, his eyes searching his baby sister; Arthur’s face is set, the picture of Victorian Stoicism, his eyes on her hands that twist in her lap.

“You are certain?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Will… the father be involved?”

“No.”

Arthur nods, and their eyes meet, and she loves this about him: they share this, along with their love of Francis, this acceptance that sometimes things are as they are and you can yell, and you can rage, but it doesn’t change anything so why waste the energy?

Why do something you can’t take back? It doesn’t change what you’ve already done.

Francis gapes at her, and she can see the tears start, and finally he breathes, “Do you want this?”

Camille’s eyebrows draw together: the question is too loaded, and she says so in their sibling language.

“You do not have to do this, if you do not want to,” and Francis’s voice gains strength as he speaks, and Arthur takes one of his hands as they realize what the very Catholic man is saying. “No one can force you, we’ll go with you to–“

“I want this,” Camille interrupts, a lump in her throat, so she says it again — “I want this” — and presses her hands to her stomach.

It’s not like the Bonnefoy have ever been a typical family: why should having her own child be any different?

And God! she wanted this child, wanted it so much, this life inside her, this piece of Toris that will be with her every moment of every day.

Francis nods, and swallows. “Ok. Ok, if that’s what you want….” He looks to his husband, and Arthur nods and smiles, and Francis smiles too when he looks back at her. “If that’s what you want, then I am happy for you, Camille.”

“You are perfectly capable,” Arthur adds to her, a softness to his face, “of raising a child on your own: you have more than enough means, and you have more than enough strength. But we needed you with Pierre, and we will need you with Marianne, so if you will allow us to help you, then no child will want for anything.”

Camille smiles wide, her heart threatening to burst from her chest — at her brother-in-law’s words, at her brother’s, at feeling that this will be ok — and nods as tears come.

The Bonnefoy-Kirkland have never been a typical family: typical families are boring, and not what they needed.

* * *

>     For God is in heaven, and you on earth;  
>      Therefore let your words be few.

The bump is small beneath her dress, Camille on Arthur’s arm as Francis carries Pierre. The men wear their suits and look very handsome, Pierre content only because he can see his dad and aunt over his papa’s shoulder, and Camille reaches out a hand for him to grab, the sleeve of her sweater sliding down her arm. “Cammie!”

“Here,” and Arthur puts an arm around her waist to guide her, and his hand falls to the bump that is small beneath her dress but there, and visible, and obvious to their kind — and her eyes come up and lock on Toris’s across the room, and his eyes are wide and his face is shocked.

Her brothers lead her into another room, and it saves her from the sight.

Slowly it becomes easier, over the week that follows: their kind say nothing, and her brothers are always with her. They fly home together, to Nice, then take the train together, because home is where her brother was and his home is her apartment for now, the weather in Britain cold and wet, their daughter not due for another three weeks. Pierre is content with all of this, the constant attention, only a thin coat when he’s taken outside for walks, bonbons from filthy rich strangers who visit them in restaurants. His father is also content, Arthur taking on a goofy air of stupid happiness when he thinks no one is watching or else when he is alone with his son, only being observed from the kitchen where the Bonnefoy siblings make food and sigh happily. Camille has never seen Francis more content in all his life, at his little family that was his and his alone. It makes her heart want to burst.

A phone rings in the distance.

She tears herself away from her brother to answer, trekking down the hallway to her bedroom, because Pierre had returned to his love of yanking at all cords. Softly she sits on the edge of the bed, eyes on Arthur and Pierre playing just outside the window, as she lifts the receiver, her mind elsewhere.

The other side of the line is only breathing.

Oh God! Her heart thumps and her muscles clench and her free hand flies to her stomach, to her womb, to cradle the life growing there. Where was he? Was he out at some Minsk corner, using a payphone? Or was he at home, his wife and son in another room? And why was he calling? There was nothing he could do, Camille didn’t want anything from him, he had already given her what he could and that was more than enough, she could manage the rest just fine on her own.

But his breathing… his breathing soothes something in her.

They stay like that for several minutes, breathing deeply, being together, before Camille does what she must for both of them — all three of them — and hangs up.

* * *

> For a dream comes through much activity,

Arthur paces, Francis beside her clutching his sister, his hand protective on her stomach, five months along now. The hospital lights glow slightly too bright, as hospitals the world over tend to do, as they wait.

“Mr Kirkland?” a nurse calls out, and Arthur almost races to her, Francis and Camille following close behind.

They had done this exact thing with Pierre, though it was Francis who had watched the surrogate give birth, whom the doctor had handed the baby to. Camille had taken the photo, the one everyone talked about, right after Francis had sat in the chair and the doctor had put the baby in his arms, and her brother had looked up with tears in his eyes to say to his husband and sister, “Je suis père,” like he couldn’t believe it as his son squirmed and cried in his arms.

Now it is Arthur’s turn, and Camille’s camera is once again ready as the first cries fill the room and Arthur doesn’t need to sit the way Francis had, taking his precious daughter in his arms and crying freely as he looks at her like he could never look away. She readies her camera until the moment Arthur looks up at Francis, and snaps it then, the look they share as their daughter flails and screams: the moment their family is complete, their love for each other divine.

The hours blur together after that, Francis calls Brigid to tell her, Arthur follows his baby girl with a small amount of strawberry hair around, and Camille thinks that in a few months it will be her daughter they’ll be greeting. How strange.

* * *

>     And a fool’s voice is known by his many words.

Francis feeds Marianne on the couch, no shirt to deprive them of precious skin to skin contact. Arthur is asleep in his room with Pierre happily laying awake beside him. Camille watches contently from the doorway, wondering if she should get Pierre and join her brother, when the phone rings in the distance.

Her brother’s tired but happy eyes look up, and she smiles and shakes her head, tearing herself away from him to go answer it. Christmas would come at the end of the month, and they’d decided that Paris with a toddler, a baby, and a pregnancy would be too much; instead they’d stay here, and later in the week move to Francis’s larger house in Nice to host those Kirklands who could come, Mathieu’s family set to arrive next week, Alfred’s son too small to fly yet. Camille runs a hand along her growing stomach at the thought of all this family visiting for a Bonnefoy Christmas, and smiles as she picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Camilla.”

“Roderich?” It’s not like she didn’t talk to him, but now those chances were few and far between. They’d always be close in a way, they had shared too much over too many centuries to not, but still — he had a wife and children of his own.

“Merry Christmas, my love.”

Something in her softens at his gentle tone: oh they would always love each other, in their own way. “Merry Christmas to you too, dearest. To what do I owe the pleasure of your sultry voice playing music to my ear?”

He laughs on his side, deep and rich, before there’s a pause, as if he’d pressed the receiver to his shoulder. “Sorry, Gilbert knocked over something fragile.”

“I would imagine that to be a daily occurrence.”

“My cousin-in-law–” Ludwig’s wife, a lovely woman Francis got along with “–said that so long as it isn’t one of her family heirlooms, she doesn’t think it should ruin the holiday cheer, and I will give Gilbert at least the benefit that he knows to respect that wish of hers.”

“Isn’t family wonderful, Roderich?” and he laughs again.

“Indeed, I suppose it is strange to see how domestic we all are now, with our marriages and children and homes.” Camille sits more comfortable on her bed, leaning back against the pillows, laying her arm around the underside of her belly. Her baby kicks. “How are you doing, dearest? I worry about you.”

“There is no need to worry, Francis always makes the food no matter how tired he is.”

“So they are staying with you? Will they, after?” In true Roderich Edelstein form, he can talk around the subject but refuses to name something so delicate aloud, even if — Camille knew — it aroused him to no end.

“They will: we have formed our own family of sorts, in the same way the Beilschmidts and Edelsteins have.”

“I hope you know, my love, that I would say the child is mine.” That makes her pause in her stroking of her stomach which Francis likes to press his face to, Arthur likes to rub her lotions into. They hadn’t gotten to experience the pregnancies of their children, she knows they are enjoying hers all the more for her. “I would do anything for you, Camilla: I… love you.” His voice drops; he doesn’t want Erzsébet to hear his words, and perhaps that little wistfulness in his voice too. He used to fantasize about impregnating her, and Camille let him, because she couldn’t deny Roderich when he had allowed himself to be so vulnerable as to say it aloud. She’s only allowed herself to be that vulnerable to one person before.

“I know, Roderich my love, and I love you too, deeply. But I do not need that of you, though I thank you for thinking of me so fondly, and of my child.”

“It is best to attempt to keep what of gentlemanliness there might still be in this world.” Maybe he’s been masturbating to the thought of her; Camille would like that.

“That is why you and Arthur get along so well.”

“If you repeat this to anyone, I will deny it vehemently, but Francis and Arthur will serve as excellent father figures for your child.” The woman laughs.

“Never in five centuries would anyone even believe me if I said what you have spoken.”

“My reputation is strong.”

“It is one of the things I most admire about you.”

“May I ask one thing of you?”

“Of course.”

“Are you happy, with your arrangement?”

Camille pauses, and breathes in slowly, and nods though Roderich cannot see that. “I am as happy as I could be, which is much happier than I thought possible. I am not afraid.”

“You always were a brave one.”

“Thank you Roderich.”

“Take care of yourself, Camilla dearest.”

* * *

> When you make a vow to God, do not delay to pay it;  
>      For He has no pleasure in fools.

The irony of being due so close to Valentine’s Day isn’t lost on her, sitting in the nursery rocking chair. The other half of the room is decorated for Marianne, with red roses and gold lilies and blue sky, with photos of fathers who love her. This side of the nursery will never show a photo of her child’s biological father, no sweet cuddles around a newborn, no family photos in the traditional sense.

Still: Camille rocks gently, content. She’s been so content these last few months, so much more than she thought she ever could be, from constantly being surrounded by Francis and Arthur to screaming children at all hours of the day to an apartment that is too small and an absolute mess. But she’s content.

Camille de Bonnefoy is content.

Which isn’t to say she’s happy — happiness is different — but contentment lasts longer. She had made her choice, months ago, years ago, perhaps centuries ago, and both happiness and pain have dulled to contentment.

When spring warms, they’ll return to England, where Arthur has a lovely country house with enough rooms for everyone and a garden Camille once tended for him. There’s a cemetery down the road, where her English brother buried a wife he had loved deeply, and Camille can imagine the six of them — three adults, three children — walking down the country road to visit the grave and plant delicate flowers and share stories of loves that never die. She imagines she holds her nephew’s and niece’s hands, and before her are her brothers, each holding one of her daughter’s hands.

She could give her daughter everything in the world, and though once she had feared she couldn’t give her a father, Camille knows she’s giving her two.

The walls will hold family photos, and her child will know she is loved.

* * *

>     Pay what you have vowed—

Francis handles everything with the midwife, Arthur holding Camille as she groans through the contractions. Francis makes the calls as Arthur soothes Camille’s back, her body bent over the edge of her bed. Francis helps Brigid pack up his children as Camille whispers to Arthur, “I’m so scared,” and her English brother kisses her cheek and whispers, “Me too, but Francis will be back soon.”

Francis is to her left, Arthur to her right; they hold her legs and hands, and encourage her as she pushes. Arthur does the counting, Francis at her ear: their mother did this for them, Camille is incredible, the baby is so close, it will all be over soon.

The immense pressure is gone, and her face relaxes, and through half closed eyes she watches Francis move to see his niece, Arthur now the one speaking into her ear: she’s done it, it’s over, the baby is here–

Her baby is here.

Long, shaking arms reach out. “My baby!” Camille pleads in a voice so desperate, it surprises even herself, and in her brother’s eyes she can see this is the voice she had when they were separated centuries earlier, their lowest point as siblings. “My baby!” she cries again, and the midwife lifts something to Camille’s chest that squirms and shrieks and is covered in who-knows-what (Francis was the one who read the books, Camille felt her part would be hands-on enough as it was)–

Francis is crying. Arthur is crying. The baby is crying.

Camille has never been more in love.

* * *

Arthur lays beside her in bed, holding her. They watch Francis at the window, cooing at his niece. Camille swears her heart is going to burst out of her chest at the sight of the two most important people in her life.

“Have you named your child yet?” the midwife asks with an assurance to her voice of a woman who cannot be shaken. Francis moves to sit beside his sister at that, facing her, Camille pushing aside soft blankets to ever so gently peer at her daughter’s face.

“I have.”

“What shall I put?”

Camille smiles wide. “Francis.” Her brother looks up, eyebrows drawn together. “Francis Arlette de Bonnefoy.”

His lips shake, as if he is about to cry, and he looks at the bundle in his arm, and smiles, and does.

The two most important people in her life.

* * *

> Better not to vow than to vow and not pay.

“I’d expected Auda.”

“Like your mother?”

“Yeah.”

“In fairness, I’d expected Auda too, for little Rose.”

“She’s your daughter, it was right for her father to name her.”

“We’re both her father, Francis.”

“That’s why I named her Marianne.”

“It is violently French.”

“We French love being violent.”

“You idiot.”

Camille listens to them through the baby monitor, imagining her brothers each holding one of the babies. Tomorrow Arlette would be baptized, her uncles holding her as godfathers: Brigid, who was staying, had told Camille how pleased she was to see Arthur finding pleasure in religion again. Camille suspects that seeing him finding pleasure in the Catholic religion was implied but couldn’t be said aloud, for fear of the man hearing and realizing what his husband had done to him.

A jarring sound disturbs her thoughts, almost drowning out Arthur’s annoyed question of, “Arlette though? Really?”

“It is a good name!”

“It was William the Conquerer’s mother’s name.”

“Your point, my English vassal?”

She struggles to reach the phone without sitting up, fumbling with the cord before pulling it close, knocking several other items from her nightstand, finally able to pick up.

Camille needs a moment to catch her breath, hoping the other person had a wrong number so she could be left in peace, before she hears it.

Or, rather, him.

Breathing deeply.

Swallowing becomes hard, aware of the murmurs of her brothers and their babies through the monitor. She could say something: their child’s name, perhaps. That she was healthy.

That she loved him.

She could say something, but doesn’t, because what words can they say? Even one would be to begin to promise something that cannot be, to dream a story that cannot be, to give hope to a heart that cannot be broken again like that.

He has his family.

She has hers.

Their love didn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things.

Camille hangs up the phone, tears rolling down her cheeks, and yanks at its cord to rip it from the wall: dreams didn’t always come true, no matter how long or hard you hoped and prayed, and they had made no vow. It was simply how it was — Camille knew that, her brothers’ voices returning before there’s the sound of a baby crying out for her mother.

She’ll say Pierre had pulled at the cord, and put Toris Laurinaitis out of her mind: she had a daughter, after all, to worry about now.

* * *

> Do not be rash with your mouth,  
>      And let not your heart utter anything hastily before God.  
>      For God is in heaven, and you on earth;  
>      Therefore let your words be few.  
>  For a dream comes through much activity,  
>      And a fool’s voice is known by his many words.  
>  When you make a vow to God, do not delay to pay it;  
>      For He has no pleasure in fools.  
>      Pay what you have vowed—  
>  Better not to vow than to vow and not pay.  
>  –Ecclesiastes 5:2-5


End file.
